Below is the kind of dangdut you have become addicted to in this story. Try listening to it while reading this story for the full effect!

---

The first time the music hits you, it isn’t just sound, it’s a hand sliding up your thigh: fingers digging into your hips, forcing them to move. That damn dangdut rhythm pulses through the Surabaya heat and your cock twitches hard in your shorts before you even understand why. The vendor’s grin is all teeth, eyes locked on the bulge straining against your zipper. “Enak ya, Bule!?” Fuck. You should’ve walked. Should’ve ran back to your apartment. But your fingers were already fumbling with cash, your throat tight with something between shame and hunger.

The moment the track plays back at your expat apartment, your body betrays you. Your nipples harden under your shirt, your cock leaking pre-cum while your hips jerk forward in time with the beat. Rational thought disappears. Your pants drop around your ankles, your fist pumping your cock, your other hand pinching a nipple. You cum with a choked groan, your seed splattering across your stomach while your thighs shake. But there is no real release: as the music keeps playing and your hips keep rolling.

From that moment, resistance is impossible. You play the song in the shower, water sluicing over skin that darkens by the day, taking on the golden-brown hue of the local girls. Your fingers trace the new curve of your waist before slipping between your legs. You play it on the train, thighs clenched around the growing wetness in your briefs, your strangely sensitive cock rubbing against fabric that feels both looser and wrong somehow. It’s not long until you realize that it isn’t your pants. Your dick is shrinking, your balls aching as they draw up tight. When you dare to touch them, they’re smaller and softer. Your breath catches, as your fingers press deeper, finding slickness there and a heat that hadn’t been there before.

Your declining manhood means you know you should stop but you can’t bare to go long without that dangdut beat. At your expat job, you hide headphones under your collar, the music causing a constant throb through your body but particularly between your legs. Your cock strains against panties, yes panties, that you hadn’t bought but now somehow wear every day. Your tits ache, nipples so sensitive that the brush of your shirt makes you whimper. You lock yourself in your work bathroom, shoving a hand down your pants, and whine when your fingers find less to grip. Your cock is less than half what it used to be, your balls now just a delicate bit of raised flesh above… slick folds, puffy and eager. You cum like that, rubbing your growing cunt like a girl, biting your lip to keep from screaming.

The club is inevitable. Neon lights and bodies glistening with sweat. The dangdut music so loud it vibrates in your bones. You don’t recognize yourself in the mirror. Your skin is golden like the dancers around you, your hips moving with natural rhythm, your tits bouncing with every step. Your cock is just a nub now, your cunt dripping down your thighs. You don’t dance so much as rut against the air, your back arching, your hands groping your own tits, pinching your nipples until tears prick your eyes. People stare. Some laugh. Some reach for you, fingers brushing your waist, your ass, and you moan, grinding back against them.

By dawn your cock is gone. Just a swollen clit left, sitting at the peak of a needy cunt. Your tits heavy in the sleek satin dress you don’t remember buying with its slit riding high up your thighs. Strappy heels click against pavement as you stumble out, hips moving with practiced ease. You also don’t recall clipping gold earrings onto your ears or painting your lips dark and glossy. You don’t recall your hair growing longer, black and silky as it falls across bare shoulders. None of it matters. The music lives in you now, thrumming under skin, dictating every sway of your hips, every hungry clench of your empty cunt. You hum a dangdut tune while walking in your heels, your fingers slipping beneath your dress to rub desperate circles against your clit.

You don’t fight it. You don’t even remember how. The music owns you now and has fucked you full of itself until nothing else fits.